


em-pyei-n vari-fen jang;

by Elisye



Series: EXEC_REBIRTHIA=PROTOCOL/. [2]
Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Space, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mixed Chronology, Simulation AU, Suicidal Thoughts, grossly inaccurate application of science and medicine for the Aesthetic, slight emetophobia warning for like one scene rip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 02:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14760831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye
Summary: "I gotta apologize to Keeboy, if I ever see them again." You eventually say, 0s and 1s processing your non-existent breaths onto the other side of a screen. "Being a robot reallydoessuck.".Ouma unsubscribes from immortality - and a snapshot look at the decision-making process therein.(Takes place duringgrand phoenix project.)





	em-pyei-n vari-fen jang;

**Author's Note:**

> /sticks leggy v far out  
> u all thought you saw the last of me and this outrageous AU didnt u
> 
>  
> 
> tw: suicidal thinking / suicide imagery / attempted suicide / (hopefully brief) vomiting visual. 
> 
> fic title comes from the song [em-pyei-n vari-fen jang;](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oBGNIZ-KL90) sung by ORIGA. (Link goes to a subbed yt video!)

 

 

“Hey, Saihara-chan?”

Your companion makes a puzzled sound, though quiet as he gives only the bare minimum of acknowledgement - his fingers begin to curl into a fist, so you mirror him at the very last moment. The twenty-third round of this endless game of rock-paper-scissors is, yet again, a manufactured tie.

You take the one-second pause between rounds to press forward. “—Okay now, time out, time out!” Entwining your fingers, you grin and fold your arms behind your head. Saihara blinks with his usual confusion, but listens and stops before he can throw down what was probably going to be a scissor. A part of you whines about how predictable that is - after five rounds of paper and six rounds of rock, followed by one round of paper and two more rounds of rock, of course scissor was going to pop up as some sort of ridiculous wild card maneuver at some point. Is the detective really all that smart if he tries to attempt something so easily see-through?

Then again, he only has three moves within rock-paper-scissors. It’s bound to get repetitive, unlike chess and its possibilities of ten raised to a hundred-twenty.

—But still, but still. Limiting yourself to the options presented is boring as is.

“Is something wrong, Ouma-kun…?” Saihara offers a small frown. You’ve been in your thoughts for a tad too long.

“Hmm. What do you think?” You hum a cheery note. “Twenty-three games, and nothing new! This is a lot worse than tic-tac-toe, you know.”

Something soft, like agreement, dances across his expression - along with a hint of contemplation, as his frown begins to grow some more. Is he starting to wonder about the constant ties _now?_  It would be beyond disappointing, if so. “True, this isn’t really normal… even if it’s technically possible. I’m pretty surprised about it myself.”

“What, you’re  _surprised?_  That’s so unfair!” With a loud huff and an exaggerated look of mock offence, you let your arms swing back to your sides, ready to continue the game. “You can’t be the only one getting surprised and hogging all the fun to yourself - not when you’re supposed to be entertaining me!”

Half a step ahead of him, you quickly take the initiative for the next round. The only outcomes available are a checkmate, a stalemate, or a complete forfeit of the game - but a small part of you, disinterested and dissident and dazzled, is much too eager to see something new, especially from your favorite opponent. You watch as Saihara internally fumbles for a split-second, rushing to react in time—

With a scissor to match your own.

 _Ugh, predictable,_  you think, think back, too-soft.  _Predictable._

In the split-second aftermath, you let your gaze flicker up. Surprise colors the other's face, translating into relief as the seconds sink into the records. And unlike you, his heart naturally hangs from his sleeves - quite clearly, he isn't and hasn't ever been playing with any sort of fine calculation in mind. Just reacting to what comes in the moment, against too many unknown variables to account for.

Considering the detective, this is impressive. Considering your expectations, this is disappointing - it may have not been the most likely outcome, but still, you were expecting something else, something a little more. Perhaps you were expecting too much of him, in the end? 

“Another tie, hm.” Despite it all, you try to be a bit optimistic - a chuckle escapes you. “Not too bad, Saihara-chan! But you’re going to need to get a whooooole lot better if you want to win this game for good now!”

(And you know this is a dream when he doesn't smile at all, scorn replacing the pleasantries - "You've already lost, Ouma-kun.”)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[ARK QUANTUM NETWORK => CENTRAL CHANNEL]

[SELECTION -> T_DR INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS NETWORK]

[ACCESSING | PLEASE WAIT…]

[ACCESS SECURED]

[LOGIN -> K_OUMA/.]

[AUTO PRIVILEGE <= SECURITY_1LVL/TRUE  
                                 R_ACCESS/TRUE]

[CODE -> R_ACCESS -> N_YAMA/.]

[CONNECTION IN PROGRESS | PLEASE WAIT…]

[CONNECTION SECURED]

 

 

 

 

 

_…Ouma-san, if you have something to say, this silence will not achieve it._

hmmmm

is it me or do you sound even more stiff through telepathy?

_That would be because of the network filters. I am not deliberately taking the time and effort to format my communication as such._

eck. take down those filters then, you sound - lame. boring. really boring! i don’t want to listen to this kind of yama-chan!!

_You know as well as anyone else that that is not possible. This isn’t a private network._

try anyway. i can’t talk to you when you sound like you’re at work.

_By all means and purposes, I **am**  at work, Ouma-san. This is the company’s own communications network. Contacting me this way is—_

yes yes yes, okay, alright. put that aside for now, because there’s better to be talking about

_Like the fact that you may just be trying to avoid my first statement by spinning a nonsensical story to divert my attention?_

ヽ(￣д￣;)ノ

_How did you transmit an emoji_

_—N-No, never mind. Don’t answer that._

hmmm, you sure, yama-chan? this might be your only chance to learn the secrets of the universe, y'know!

_I am quite content with being ignorant, thank you._

ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, but—

_If you truly have nothing of importance to tell me, I will have to end this conversation rather soon now. Sincerely speaking._

……………………………

…fine.

fine!

if yama-chan’s going to be rude, then im not gonna ask!

_Ask? About what?_

[CONNECTION TERMINATED]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You wake up, groggy and sick in the mouth, to a plain metal ceiling.

Immediately, you squeeze your eyes closed, hoping for nothing, hoping for anything else. What or who or why, your computerized brain could probably answer - but you don’t want to, so you won’t and don’t.

Getting out of bed will always be this kind of struggle.

But you do, eventually, after god knows how long. The blankets have already been kicked off in your sleep, spilling off the end of the bed - you slowly bring your legs to the floor, the urge to gag rising as you rise. But you keep it in, always do, before you reach a sink and retch the bionic digestion fluid out of your systems. It drains away, colorless but disgusting, and you force the rest of it to disappear faster with enough twists of the tap. A tiny voice, soft in its concern (and soft like his hands, as when he wrapped the bandages around your fingers), notes that you’re going to have to go out and get a refill of all the acid you just vomited out. You can’t eat otherwise, and sure, it’s not like you’ll die if you don't—

You raise your head to meet the mirror. There’s something dead in the reflection, with an android’s flawless skin and a human’s bleeding head trauma. Weakly, you smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Today, we’re playing chess!”

You flip open the foldable board, the black-white squares looking a bit worn under the cafeteria’s lights. You almost wonder who else could have been playing with this chessboard - and isn’t that a fascinating line of thought to be wondering about, along with everything else about your situation? - but don’t, as Saihara blinks in a quizzical, owlish fashion. Even if that expression lasts only a few seconds or so, it’s enough to say that this isn’t what the detective was expecting. At all, probably. Which is a pretty boring conclusion, since you figured as much—but that’s not the point you’re ultimately looking for now.

Saihara glances between the board and you for a moment, hesitantly speaking, “Is this one of the three chances?”

“Hm? Naaaaah.”

“Then—”

“Don’t worry about it too much, Saihara-chan.” You pick up a velvet pouch from the table, idly toying with the tasseled rope keeping it closed. “As a Supreme Leader, I always make good on my promises - and that definitely includes my promise to kill you! So, consider this as a generous gift for lasting this long! Or for lasting at all, really, because I’ll be beheading you right after this.”

You untie the rope around the pouch, your smile becoming wider as your beloved  ~~friend~~   ~~exception~~   ~~heartstealer~~  acquaintance becomes a terrifying example of pale and deathly unnerved. Pity makes you throw a bone, in the form of a distracting laugh. “—Of course, that’s just a lie! Maybe.”

Your words are mere party tricks, but magic to the unseeing. So the clockwork keeps going. While beyond unsettled, still, the detective makes a cute, scrunched-up look of contemplation, his hand rising to his mouth as his eyes watch you with a piercing sort of intent. You neatly tuck away another laugh at his paranoia, understand it all the same, and turn the velvet pouch upside-down over the table. Plastic pieces, black kings and white bishops, scatter loudly over the board - they pull Saihara away from overthinking things, back to things at hand. Wouldn’t that be most important in a do-or-die situation?

“Take a seat!” You gesture, maybe a bit impatiently, to the other side of the table. Your fingers have already landed on a black pawn, set on an equally black square. “I know I’m going to beat you in, well, ten minutes or so - but still, entertain me again with that brain of yours, Saihara-chan! Detectives should be good at these kinds of games, right?”

“T-That’s just your own assumption, Ouma-kun.” It takes a moment, but eventually, finally, the boy decides not to take your vague death threats at face value - he settles down into a chair, and helps to arrange the pieces. White for him, black for you.

Protagonist and villain, though neither was genuinely by choice, huh?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When you step out of your little apartment, the sun glares from above and burns into your arms. It’s not discomforting, not really - but it still feels somewhat disorienting. This sunlight isn’t real, after all.

Digging your hands into the pockets of your pants, you take your leisurely time to walk along the paved roads, your sleeves occasionally disturbing the cube-cut bushes to your side. Inside this ship, it’s the beginning of summer - so the sky projected above is the clearest blue possible, devoid of mist-sprayed clouds. The sun is a simulated spot of light in the center of the dome, creating shadows that barely tilt away from your feet. You didn’t check the time earlier, but you don’t really have to when you can read the shadows—it seems you slept until noon, again. (Should have slept in some more, then. Not like anyone’s here to complain you exist.)

It takes a solid half an hour or so of walking to finally reach the inner parts of the city. Despite how horribly out of place you feel, no one bats an eyelash at you - you blur into the crowds, your small frame letting you slip between people without any words said. Like the fake sun, this is equally disorienting. A part of you wants to raise hell, to be a burning icon of mischief and attention, but this isn’t some crappy, illegal simulation about murder and a callous need for stimulation. This is reality. This is reality. This is real life, a world much too similar to the simulation anyway, but deadly bears don’t exist, and you won’t ever get away with killing someone—an entire society is here to condemn you for it, should they ever find out. But, you suppose, even that might not happen, at least in your case.

With plenty of bureaucracy and plenty of silencing, you’ve become one in over a hundred now, another person waiting for a new world to plant your feet and roots into. Like perhaps everyone else - you’ve become a nameless ghost, drifting through space, through your life, defined by nostalgia and want for what was.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

White and black, white and black. Black and white, black and white.

You shall win.

(You shall lose, but at this point, that’s only for the future to know.)

Your fingers deftly swap the white king for a black bishop. A wide, teasing smile spreads across your face as you look your opponent in the eye, voice lilting and bright, “And that’s checkmate!”

Saihara simply observes the board, the lightly furrowed shape of his eyebrows pointing at his dismay. Eventually, though, because he isn’t a sore loser and never will be, he sighs and leans back into his chair, defeat rolling over his shoulders with comfortable grace. You hum a sound, plain but pleasant, at your fiftieth victory - it’s a milestone number, isn’t it? You have every intention to get your age up to that number too, if possible. (It has to be possible. You’ll live to the end, you’ll stop this farce, and you’ll make sure you won’t be the lone survivor in the aftermath. Though, that won't mean you won't be  _lonely_ —)

“You’re really good at chess, Ouma-kun.” Saihara says with a faint smile, making an observation that’s already been clear and repeated since your tenth consecutive victory. Even so, you’re in a good mood, so you set your elbows on the table and lean forward a bit, gladly taking the comment as something almost endearing to hear.

“Of course I am! A Supreme Leader knows everything there is to leading, and playing chess isn't any different from that.” You pick up your queen, a promoted pawn, and idly inspect the grooves of its carving. "It's like this, you see - every piece in chess is like a person in a kingdom. When that kingdom is threatened, obviously, they're gonna want to fight back and protect it, right? So my job as the player—in other words, their king and commander in one—is to lead them to victory and freedom, no matter what it takes. Easy-peasy stuff! I could do this in my sleep if I wanted to, even."

A free-floating laugh escapes you, half-sincere, half-thoughtlessly. The detective doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks down at the board, it’s easy to figure that he already guessed your answer. And why wouldn’t he? What you said is something close to common sense - assuming everything about you from your name to your talent isn’t a marvelously, disgustingly fabricated lie. Realistically, it would be nigh impossible for you to do anything in your sleep—and you’re no Iruma, who’s been happily tinkering away at computer programs and murder plans, no doubt. Being a prodigy in anything doesn't always enable a miracle on demand, as the past several weeks have shown.

“Does that mean you always have to make the second move?”

Saihara continues to look down at the board, thoughtful in expression, thoughtless in expression of the articulate sort. You had a pack of cards on hand, illustrated with jokes and lies to carelessly spend, to pass the time with and without any meaning if you had to - but reaching into the deck at this very moment, you can't find the right jester to play as a response, not immediately.

So, for an answer, you stare - after a minute too long of nothing, Saihara looks up, blinking back at your silence. Noticing your intense staring, however, his usual bout of self-consciousness returns, anxiety slanting his shoulders. On a different day, maybe, you would have fixed this little break in character with a well-timed grin and a loud laugh, just one octave higher in difference, but you don't. (After all, you have a grand act to prepare for. An act bigger than any other, one that will engulf every white and violet lie you've ever told. It goes without saying, until you've had your turn on stage, you can't spare a single ounce of your lies elsewhere - or at least, deep down, you lie to yourself and say that.)

"Um." His eyes flicker between you and anything else, avoiding direct eye-contact. Likely without thinking, he begins to reach up for a non-existent cap, though his nervous habit modifies itself at the last second to just brushing aside his fringe a little. "Did I say something strange just now?"

"...Hmm." Lips pursed, as indecision flickers, reigns, without warning. "Not really."

Regardless - "Saihara-chan just asked a  _very_  interesting question."

Despite himself, maybe, curiosity lights up in the detective's eyes. "Is it?"

"Well - no." Your fingers curl, feather-light, around the crossed-crown of your king. "Your wording is the interesting part."

The boy just blinks at you. Even so, you can see the cogs whirling steadily, speedily in his head. Trying to break down your words for further meaning - a kindness not everyone wants to give you. (A kindness that will shrivel into hatred soon enough. It shouldn't mean anything. You know it shouldn't - but you're a liar, lying to yourself. As much as you hate being anything less than opaque, it's a sweet temptation - to be seen. To be loved.)

You offer a thin, wry smile. "Most people would ask why I keep picking black. To which I'd answer, well - black's my color, you know! Can't let you guys forget that I'm the  _evil_  leader of an  _evil_  organization! Black just _has_  to be my color, duh."

Saihara looks at you. Really looks at you, even if he doesn't—can't—see too far in. "Would you still answer that way to my question?"

"What do you think?"

"...You like to lie. This time wouldn't be any different." A sigh - careful, careful. "But, if you do lie, it would be too obvious, even for you."

"Oh? And what's your reasoning for that, my beloved?"

He falters for a second at your fondness, a distraction of the finest caliber! But he wouldn't be the Ultimate Detective if these little things derailed him. "I guess, for starters - I wasn't asking about why you always play black. I was asking why you always choose to play second. It's subtle, but they aren't the same thing. And the context, too—you were talking about tactics. I'm not a great strategist, or even a good chess player, but having the first move is usually the most advantageous, right? If you're playing to win—"

A pause. Words trailing away, disappearing. Eyes settle on the edge of the table as realization and confusion anew ticks away along those cogs. "If you're playing to win..."

In return, you just keep smiling - a warmer, pleased smile. You lean an elbow on the table, close to grinning when Saihara looks at you with a refined hypothesis in hand.

"You're not playing to win?"

You cluck your tongue at him, mockingly distasteful. "Why would I? I don't like losing, but always winning isn't any fun either. What's the point of playing or watching a game when you already know how it's gonna end? Now, when you don't know what'll happen - isn't that more _exciting,_ Saihara-chan?"

You've finally crossed into a grinning impulse. For a few spare seconds, only just that, Saihara stares at you like you just renounced lying to become a pathological truth-speaker. Your grin stretches a millimeter wider at the metaphor in your head, at the sheer implausibility of it.

—But, while this lasts, while you're at the peak of trustworthy with the only person to whom it matters, you might as well spit out a jagged candy-piece of a confession. A pure truth, the final one in a probably long, long time. Or ever, perhaps.

"Hey, Saihara-chan." You play with your king. It spins and spins on its white square. "Are you having fun with me so far? Playing with me?"

"Ah, um—" He blinks several times, a reverie broken. "If you're talking about these chess matches, I— I think so."

You raise an eyebrow. "You  _think_  so?"

The detective sinks a bit into his chair, glancing down at the board. His sad pile of captured black pieces litter the small space between the table edge and the chessboard, while an underused queen sits to the side, mourning the death of the white king. The war has ended, but at what cost? Was it worth it?

(Maybe, the future says. Yes, but no.)

"I do enjoy playing with you." Saihara starts, softly. "It's not as fun to have a losing streak of more than ten matches in a row, but even so, you're right - it's exciting to see how each match unfolds. Every time you play something that I didn't expect, I feel like I'm learning something new about you."

And he offers a smile, small but sure - genuine to the point that you really could become a pathological truth-speaker.

But then, this killing game won't end. And that's more unforgivable than becoming a murderer. 

(Even though, either way, you're getting blood on your hands, and that's all that matters.)

"Not a bad answer." You hum a tone, returning a smile of your own, wistful on the edges. "I wasn't expecting something so cheesy out of you - but it'll do! Congratulations on passing the test with flying colors!"

"Eh? Test?"

"Yep! Test!"

You don’t wait for the detective to get his reply in. Quickly but carefully, you grab the edges of the board and simply turn it around - till a sparse clutter of white pieces sit right in front of you.

"As a reward for meeting my expectations, I'll play white for the next round!" You reach for the white queen on the other side of the table. "If you win, I'll stop trying to kill you. But if you lose even with my lucky color black, we're going to have our third and final event tomorrow, you hear?"

The boy looks up and down between his side of the board and your side of the board, black and white, white and black reversed. He opens his mouth in the familiar shape of uncertain protest, but shuts it before you can hear a sound. In a quaint minute or half of one, as a response, he begins to arrange the black pawns on his side of the playing field - the proper answer lies in his determined look and the quick nod of his head, acceptance at its most immediate. Makes you think of the first little game that led to this.

With a chuckle, you pluck away the white queen and set it back at its rightful square, boasting - "Are you prepared to be humiliated by my chess prowess, Saihara-chan?"

"I don't know about that, but I'll try my best, Ouma-kun." In the end, you receive the face of a real opponent - with a spatter of confidence, and the mutual respect of someone who will enjoy the journey and the outcome alike, no matter what it may be. 

Sunlight and denial floundering in your heart, you match your smile with his, and focus on arranging your pieces.

(You will cherish this memory. That's your truth.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[INPUT TERMINAL]

[LOGIN -> N_YAMA/.]

[AUTO PRIVILEGE <= SECURITY_5LVL/TRUE  
                                 R_ACCESS/TRUE  
                                 W_ACCESS/TRUE  
                                 EX_ACCESS/TRUE  
                                 DEL_ACCESS/TRUE]

[CODE -> EX_ACCESS <= S_2016y17a8389292h8939823s1111ts.EXA/.]

[COMPILATION IN PROCESS...]

[COMPILATION COMPLETE]

[CODE -> R_ACCESS]

[TERMINAL IS BEING RECONFIGURED | PLEASE WAIT...]

  

 

—wooooooooooooooooooooow, this place is as boring as ever!!!!!!!! there's nothing here!!!!! absolutely nothing! i should get some streamers and

oh, yama-chan.

nice to see you around, finally

[How are you doing in there?]

peachy! like electrocuted applesauce! burnt and smooshed and a little tingly, but that might just be my imagination right now

[...]

heehee, that's a lie, of course

...or is it???????????  Σ(゜ロ゜;)

[Ouma-san.]

[Do you really want to go through with this?]

huh. is there a point in asking me that question?

[Because we need your full consent throughout. If you're having any second thoughts, or are uncomfortable with the procedure]

have i ever said i want to stop?

[No, but]

then don't.

i already told you, didn't i?

im done with it. im done with that body too.

it can look as human as it wants, but it's just a bunch of scrap metal on the inside. nothing human in the least.

[I... see.]

what, disappointed?

were you looking forward to gossiping with me about the newest android lines for the next fifty years or something?

now that's really touching yama-chan! but you know ill only ever gossip about the quality of loose leaf tea and what to eat with it

[I was hardly interested in gossiping about anything, much less either.]

booooriiiiing

[But]

[You're not wrong otherwise.]

[I am a little]

[No, I'm  _very_  disappointed.]

you really shouldn't be

but, dont worry about it anyway! after all, in the next hundred years or so, im gonna be nothing more than a speck of rust in your circuits

you'll forget about me soon enough

[To be blunt and frank - no, I will not.]

[This is not something I can easily brush aside, or want to forget about.]

[After what's happened, it's my duty more than ever to ensure everyone reaches a new Earth. That's why we've prepared android bodies for ourselves, for this long interim.]

[But, with your decision to abandon them...]

[This is selfish of me to say, I know, but as a member of humanity, dedicated to preserving it - I feel that I've failed you, deeply.]

pfffffffffffft, failed me? i asked for this.

so don't start some kind of martyrdom here, im totally not interested, okay?

[I know.]

[I simply... don't want to accept it.]

[Unless we're lucky with our findings in the near-future, you will inevitably...]

exactly, my dear yama-chan.

life is a game, and the way im playing it, it won't ever end

now, no game is a bad game, but this one is just waaaaaaay too long for me, and ive got a terrible hand thats probably going to stay terrible

so ill change the way i play things and just get rid of all my cards!

might be a loser in the end for losing my whole hand, but it's still better than the alternative.

[I wish you would reconsider this, even so.]

[We're at the final stage of the procedure, but objections will still be listened to.]

and i've got none really, so

really

really

yama-chan,  _stop asking me to live._  im ** _not interested._**

[...]

...

[...]

...

[...]

[...alright.]

[Alright.]

[If there really is no changing your mind, then...]

[...]

[Your new body will be ready shortly. You will only have to stay in the database for a few more hours. Or another day or two, if any unexpected complications arise.]

well, thats good to hear

i appreciate it, y'know?

[Is there anything you'd like to inform me about? Any questions or requests before I leave?]

can i get some streamers in here?

[We haven't loaded you into any sandbox constructs, Ouma-san.]

so

no streamers?

[No streamers.]

what a party pooper.

[Is that all you have to say?]

wellllllllllllllllllllll

hm

this is just for posterity now, buuut

i gotta apologize to keeboy, if i ever see them again.

being a robot really _does_  suck

ha

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Did you sleep well last night?”

Yamamoto looks over you with a look mechanically set to betray nothing. She takes in your unruly bed-hair and your checkered pajamas without the comment that is obviously bubbling on her lips, but breaks her silence for an inevitable sigh once you crack a lazy morning smile - “I suppose not, then.”

“Aww, what makes you think that?” You fold your arms behind your head, eyes wandering away in curiosity. It isn’t an excuse to look at something that isn’t the lanyard hanging from her neck, sporting a minimalist white, black, and Team Danganronpa’s trademark logo dressed in blood pink. “I could have had the best sleep I’ve ever had in the past thousand years, you know! Really, Yamamoto-chan, you shouldn’t jump the shark and ask stuff like if androids dream of electric sheep, because we all know the answer to that now!”

She purses her lips for a moment, eventually shaking her head. You can read it as disagreement or a very tidy way of brushing the whole conversation aside at once. “Yes, indeed. And the answer is that we don’t, because we don’t undergo the process at all.”

“Wow, so cut and dry.”

“Someone told me that facts are never necessarily theatrical.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t make them fun to listen to, y'know.” Your smile breaks out into a grin. Yamamoto doesn’t bother arguing with you on the joys and cons of making patchwork stories torn out from encyclopedias, simply turning towards the large gate that had been looming before the two of you. She raises the name card dangling from her lanyard to the center of the gate, where the glided bars have warped and melded into the outlines of a planet surrounded with flowers and leaves. Or something like that - it’s honestly too abstract a design to make concrete ideas out of.

Something scans or detects the card, because not two seconds later, you hear the tell-tale whines of an unlocking mechanism - the gates slide open, giving way to spacious gardens and a towering complex of buildings built more to satisfy egos than to safeguard the rest of humanity. That’s your opinion at least, and it’s not going to change as you follow Yamamoto through the gates and into the nearest building, your hands idly disturbing the roses in bloom along the way, leaving the faintest imprint of fingerprint oil and pollen on the scrubbed-white pillars decoratively flanking the entrance.

Silence is kept as the two of you head deeper into the complex. Occasionally, it gets disturbed by a passing employee or the beeping of a security clearance, but it doesn’t truly falter at any of those points. The quiet feels almost oppressive after a while - you take to whistling a nonsensical tune, even if it doesn’t seem to do anything except highlight the clacking echo of your companion’s two-inch heels through the hallways. A conversation would be nice, but you can tell by the brisk pace you’ve been trying to keep up with that there probably isn’t much room for any particularly entertaining dialogue on the other end of the can and string. Sure, you could try anyway, but at this time in the morning, it feels like too much effort for your sluggish feet.

Thankfully (not at all), you’re saved from the silence by reaching your destination - a set of heavy double-doors at the end of a maze of hallways, with a placard nailed to one of the doors reading  _Medical Wing_  in a handful of languages. You listen to the final beeps of a successful security test and find yourself in a hallway not any different from the one you just exited, except for the slightly sharper tang of disinfectant and electricity in the air.

“We’ll be conducting the tests in this room,” Yamamoto says, heading for a door on the right. You take one small step in following before a door on your left swings open, the centerpiece of your vision suddenly occupied by artificial flesh and bright blue hair.

You blink. They blink. Under florescent white lights, plain features sharpen to grey, from something innocent to something—

“Ah.” They speak, soft and familiar, very familiar, and yet somehow distant, clinical. “Ouma-kun. This is a surprise.”

Shirogane Tsumugi offers a smile. It’s strained.

You feel Yamamoto place a hand on your shoulder, quietly, gently urging you to follow her into the other room. You should listen, maybe, but you can’t help but focus on the way your fellow—former—classmate looks like she’s trying her hardest not to appear displeased - nor can you help but stare intensely at the lanyard hanging around the girl’s neck, sporting a minimalist white, black, and Team Danganronpa’s trademark logo in blood pink. Time seems to halt for a second, the world shifting, your mind shifting, puzzle pieces wrangling out from your memory and eagerly putting themselves together without you prompting it.

Slowly, too slowly, you look at Shirogane in the eye. A dull, murky blue reflects back. Time resumes its course, suddenly and violently running alive in your veins - like anger, like mockery, like poison.

Everything falls into place. The clarity hurts to realize.

Numbed by the answers, you don’t quite register being pulled out from the hallway. You don’t quite register Yamamoto’s concerned, pensive expression as she closes the door behind her - nor do you register Shirogane walking away with a detached  _goodbye and good day,_  like the two of you had been dreaming of nothing more than a tea party in a dollhouse until a while ago.

(And that’s exactly what it had all been, ultimately—play-pretend, but much too cruel.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[COMMUNICATION SETTINGS -> ALTER -> FORMAT -> RECORD]

[SETTINGS SAVED]

[CODE -> R_ACCESS -> N_YAMA/.]

[RECORDING IN PROGRESS…]

…

…

well, how do i start this?

why don’t we go with— lets— ugh.

never mind, i guess. i’ll be to the point, for once. but not really, since you know - you know.

you see, yama-chan - i want a different body.

not another body, okay? ‘different’ and 'another’ are two separate things, after all! gotta be careful of language now, heehee

anyway, you get it, right? i want something else. but not a second body, not a different model number, not even a different type of android. i don’t want this kind of body anymore, really. it doesn’t do me wonders at all - remembering and

and

i shouldn’t be like this. put me back in my actual body.

(please.)

[RECORDING SAVED]

[RECORD SENT]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[ARK QUANTUM NETWORK => CENTRAL CHANNEL]

[SELECTION -> T_DR S:#_EXA REGISTRY DATABASES]

[WARNING | THE SELECTED CHANNEL IS AN ENCRYPTED CHANNEL. DO YOU TRULY WISH TO CONTINUE -> (Y/N)?]

[INPUT -> (Y)]

[ANALYZING SECURITY CREDENTIALS…]

[CREDENTIALS CONFIRMED]

[ACCESSING | PLEASE WAIT…]

[ACCESS SECURED]

[LOGIN -> N_YAMA/.]

[AUTO PRIVILEGE <= SECURITY_5LVL/TRUE  
                                 R_ACCESS/TRUE  
                                 W_ACCESS/TRUE  
                                 EX_ACCESS/TRUE  
                                 DEL_ACCESS/TRUE]

[CODE -> EX_ACCESS -> MEDICAL SPECTRUM DATABASE -> FILTER -> YXXXXXX/01/15]

[SEARCHING DATABASE…]

[(1) FILE FOUND]

[CODE -> R_ACCESS]

[OPENING FILE | PLEASE WAIT…]

 

 

Dated: YXXXXXX/01/15

Patient Name: Ouma, Kokichi

Patient S:#_EXA ID: S_2016y17a8389292h8939823s1111ts

 

_Medical Profile: Post-Simulation Basic Testing_

_D-Composition Analysis:_

Damage located in composition memory of physical parameters. This damage is located throughout the composition memory of the patient's functioning body state, with a severe degree of damage located within the composition memory of the patient's skeletal infrastructure and internal body matter such as the nervous system, the blood circulatory system, and multiple organs ranging from the brain to the liver.

Damage is quantified at 91.13% of the patient’s complete D-composition memory. Repair has resolved 88.95% of the patient’s damaged D-composition memory. A quantity of damage persists due to wave intersection complications; this damage may become aggravated within H-composition intersections.

Overall damage is currently low enough that no significant issues should arise. As a precaution, it is advised that the patient undergo a series of weekly or bi-weekly maintenance tests for the next three months as to monitor for further complications such as wave degradation.

_H-Composition Analysis:_

Damage located in composition memory of mental parameters. This damage is located throughout the patient’s mental strata from DLVL_1 to DLVL_9 as defined under the Human Consciousness Metrics. Emotional disturbances and mental trauma on the subject of human life, death, murder, violence, moralities, trust, compassion, etc., and other related matters have been located.

Initial damage is quantified at 76.24% of the patient’s complete H-composition memory. Due to memory tampering in the patient’s previous reality immersion simulation, total damage is quantified at 93.02% of the patient’s complete H-composition memory. Repair has resolved 45% of the patient’s damaged H-composition memory. A quantity of damage persists due to the technical difficulty of resolving issues in H-composition memory via computerized recovery; the erasure methodology was rejected as an alternative treatment procedure, citing psychological and ethical concerns from the patient’s assigned medical consultant.

Overall damage in composition memory currently remains at a dangerous level.  _Intervention is highly required for the continued well-being of the patient._

[CODE -> W_ACCESS]

Dated: YXXXXXX/02/28

Updated by: Yamamoto, Natsuhi

 

_Post-Testing Supplementary Comments:_

As of YXXXXXX/02/21, the patient has expressed a desire to be relocated into his original body - an act that would defy the strict awakening protocols surrounding the removal of bodies in cryostasis. As such, on a legal basis, it is a request to be declined. However, in consideration of the patient’s negative mental state, it may not do well to refuse him.

This is not to say that his request should be blindly accepted. We have no exact precedent for the patient’s complex situation, and we certainly cannot determine what may or shall follow in any case. Thus I recommend that the patient’s request be accepted, while suitable procedures are undertaken to monitor his physical and mental state until we can be sure that nothing adverse will occur because of it - or the opposite scenario, as well. In regards to this monitoring, the patient  _must_ be clearly informed about it before any action related to this is taken, and any surveillance conducted should _not_  be an invasive act, instead restricted to procedures such as routine checkups with me and other medical consultants.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And this would be the end.

Metal encroaching, slowly - the whine of the machinery is soft but there, persistent, and it takes too long. But it’s also too short - if you look, if you turn, deviating from the script of your memories, the press slams down at once and something like your heart absolutely burns to jump out of your chest with each simulated, pounding beat. Like every other night, the residue of your passing dream swirls like gunk in a drain as you find yourself gazing up at metal again, a harmless blank ceiling in a spaceship, wishing for fake blue skies and something that you lost along with your ethics. Before you realize it, there are hearty laughs leaving your throat, mixed with something silent and heavy, sobs slipping through the cracks.

Oh, you know better than anyone else - you won't be getting anything back. It may have been something like a dream, but you’ve crossed the point of no return and mailed the consequences back into reality. 

There's only this - so say goodbye, to your old life. Goodbye, to your quiet self. Goodbye to morality and mortality and happiness - to your dearest friend and all the love that could have been. Welcome, immortal murderer and unending, well-deserved guilt. Nothing will the same from now on. You have an eternity to outlive first, unless you can become human again—

Your breaths stutter. A heartbeat skipped, burning more so, as the thought murmurs on repeat - _unless you can become human again?_  

Unless you can become human again.

Unless you can discard this artificial form for the true and the organic, with every weakness and limitation that comes with time and imperfect evolution.

...That isn’t an absolute impossibility. After all, your current body isn’t the one you were born in.

And if you can it have your way, you won’t be dying in this body either.

—You take a deep breath, forcing your breathing into a soft, steady pace. Tear-ducts dry and fake snot stops leaking from your nose, staining the covers from a lack of caring. As you stare up at the ceiling again, your mind simultaneously blank and filled with static, you feel a strange, but familiar determination - to enact a dramatic plan. To see the finale. You want a satisfying, crumbling, destructive conclusion.

You reached an ending that was somewhat like that before. Do you remember from where?

Of course you do.

Inside the quantum space of your brain, electric impulses run with increasing certainty. You make an internal note to contact your medical consultant in the morning, attaching a particularly annoying alarm tone to the note just in case, before pulling the blankets over your head. Your chest aches - but you don’t dare contemplate the reason, you don’t need to, and focus on sleep. With your eyes closed, you can’t see the starry patterns on the blanket, can’t see anything really.

Not for the last time, surely, you think, that would have been best.

 


End file.
